


yours, uncharted

by miriya



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Bad Flirting, Banter, First Time, Foreplay, Frottage, Kink Meme, M/M, No Beta, Oral Sex, Verse 2 Compliant, dudes absolutely crazy about each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-04-21 16:32:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14288949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: I had lines inside of me, a string of guiding lights.Kink meme fill for an anon who wanted a dashing, kingly Noct seducing the heck out of his beloved advisor.   Of course, it's ... Noct.  Have a whole lot of banter and fluff and porn.





	1. ignis.

_'Explore me,' you said and I collected my ropes, flasks and maps, expecting to be back home soon._  
\- Jeanette Winterson 

 

Seven.

That's the number of reports remaining on Ignis's desk from today's haul. Among them, Sonia's scrawled warning of a new strain of feather sickness observed in the daggerquill of Keycatrich. Aranea's updates on salvageable material in Gralea's deserted streets. This month's list of recovered tags from Dave, a list Noctis asks for personally near the end of every month. Bandits on the edge of Lestallum, ruffians gone bold once more with the return of daylight and Iris is so incensed about this fact that she's threatening to deal with the matter personally. Ignis feels himself duty-bound to pass that one on to Gladio. 

A glossy copy of _Meteor_ , thumbed open to a two-page spread: midday in the recently restored throne room. Noctis seated in a near-crouch at the edge of a crimson-carpeted step with his Glaives arrayed behind him, the king's mysterious, almost playful smile at odds with the seriousness lining the faces of the men and women with him. His father's sword rests on its point on the floor between his spread knees, and Ignis idly wonders how much it will cost him to persuade Vyv to cough up the original.

Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and callused forefinger -- the ghost pressure of glasses remains sometimes, though his eyes adjusted to light again almost a month ago.

At this moment, there's not much to act on. Just plenty and then some to think about.

And that's precisely what Ignis is doing when the door to his office clicks open. _Noct_ , judging by the slight uneven shuffle of footsteps across the false-marble floor. Ignis feels the edge of his mouth pull into a smile as his king makes his way closer, and he doesn't bother to check the time. Noctis had texted him two days ago to ask to be worked into his advisor's schedule for an hour or two of dinner -- as if he's ever needed to go that far. As if Ignis hasn't always inevitably dropped everything whenever Noct so much as looks too hard in his general direction. Noct is over an hour early.

For all that, the sun is just beginning to dip beneath the Insomnian skyline. While he may have matured in many ways, Noct's impatience remains just as strong as ever -- perhaps worse now that he's officially ascended the throne.

No one dares keep a king waiting lightly, after all, particularly one as persuasive as Noctis can be. 

It takes considerable effort for Ignis himself to keep his eyes on the stacks of paper in front of him, lining up edges to edges with the same focused deliberation he uses to craft his recipes, the same he used to need to look after Noctis himself when gods and history both seemed fully bent on his destruction.

(He finds himself missing that, sometimes. Chef, chauffeur, mother hen -- perhaps the tasks in themselves weren't particularly meaningful, but he misses the perpetual closeness, the fact that he was ever at Noct's side, two eyes on his charge.)

"That much, huh?" Noct's voice is warm as sunlight, soft and bright and far more welcome than Ignis wishes to admit after a day of meetings and delegation and study; he can't help but close his eyes and lean into the sound a little, even as he moves to tuck what's left of the paperwork into the magazine. 

It's Noct's touch that halts him mid-motion, slender fingers spreading out over the back of his hand, leaving Ignis's breath stilling in the back of his throat. Noct, who plants himself at the edge of the desk in a whisper of expensive cloth and the muted clink of chain and ornamental coin.

Noct, dipping his head, leaning toward Ignis and finally, _finally_ , Ignis relents, lifting his face in turn, the pucker of an old scar punctuating the faux-perplexed arch of his brow. "Your majesty," he murmurs, fighting that smile from a few moments ago, the one that stubbornly refuses to retreat.

"That's me," Noct huffs, and then turns his attention to the glossy beneath their hands. "Figured you'd be wrapping up by now, y'know. Not burning daylight reading tabloids." His fingers slip past Ignis's, tugging the magazine free. "Can't believe you got your hands on it first. Who's king around here, anyway?"

Ignis shrugs, already resigning himself to the end of the productive part of his day. "The price of information," he says flippantly, gesturing with his other hand. "Unsurprisingly, Vyv's team wasn't averse to passing along an advance copy in exchange."

Noctis is silent for a moment then, studying Ignis and the magazine in turn, and then he whistles low. "Huh. Contributing, too? Seems my advisor is becoming a bit of a degenerate in his old age." That earns him a quiet snort, as Ignis leans back in his chair to better see Noctis. There's a nervous energy to his king this evening, tension in his posture, in the subtle way he favors his weakened knee even at rest. 

(It's not surprising, really. Lucis lost far more than its king when Insomnia fell, and Eos itself hardly fared better in the decade of darkness that followed. Cor and his Glaives are as much artifacts as survivors now, but for all his help, he knows far more about _protecting_ kings than advising them. Now that they are rebuilding, Ignis -- startlingly -- finds himself one of the foremost experts on how to reassemble the scattered pieces of the Citadel, relying on memory and instinct as much as on the vast archives left behind in the wake of apocalypse. It's far too much work for just one man, but there's satisfaction in the effort, in the drive to gather up for Noctis the most perfect version of what he was always meant to die to defend.)

"That's me," Ignis parrots Noct's words from only a moment ago, and is rewarded with a quiet, fond chuckle. The sound of it still makes Ignis ache after all those years of absence, leaves him swallowing around something thick and prickling in the back of his throat. The world would have denied him -- would have denied all of them -- Noctis, and with him these simple moments.

Ignis, instead, has denied the world.

He does not number that truth among his regrets.

"Besides," Ignis continues after the pause, a bit more seriously. "Better to control what's put out there for public consumption. Not that I don't trust the man to portray you well, but I'd rather be certain."

Noct's smile tilts oddly in the face of Ignis's perfectly reasonable explanation, a flash of white teeth as the corners of his eyes crinkle -- despite all that restlessness Ignis can sense in him, he's at ease, in good humor. A relief, that. "You know, Iggy, the whole world isn't necessarily going to adore me like you do. I can handle a few unflattering words now and again."

 _It should_ , Ignis thinks. Noct is teasing him now, as he does so often now that there's time and breath for anything beyond survival, but he's closer to the mark than he likely realizes. Adoration? Well, that's one way to term it.

"Job description," Ignis reminds him gently.

"Hobby," Noct laughs, and to that Ignis can only shrug again, defeated. For a few moments, there's just this -- just them in the sanctum of Ignis's quiet office, two dear comrades sharing space without a single battle in sight. _This_ , this _right here_ , is what Ignis surrendered his life to the kings of yore for; Noctis alive and smiling, Noctis and the sparkle in his twilight eyes. Noct's fingers tapping a slow tattoo across the back of Ignis's hand as he leans back and then finally draws away.

Noctis, alive in the world, all but glowing with it.

Eventually the humor fades to something different, something timeless-feeling, patient and impatient all at once, a feeling that Ignis has familiarized himself with in the weeks since that first daybreak. Despite the easy sense of peace, there are heavy threads between them, pulled taut in the wake of Noct's return. In the time they've had, there's always been _something_ to get in the way of the things that maybe shouldn't but also _must_ be said. Most often, these pregnant moments are broken up by reports and matters of state, fledgling officials tentatively feeling out the spaces between Noct's tremulous attempts at easy familiarity and the archaic idea of a king's remoteness. For now, at least, they are alone, and Ignis isn't sure whether that coiling sense of anticipation in his gut is more nervous or relieved at the idea of that pressure finding an outlet.

Ignis swallows again, his attention shifting between Noct's long fingers (his nails could use a trim, and Ignis wonders what Noct would say if he mentioned it) and the top of his desk. Noct's cape is perilously close to tipping a bottle of ink, and Ignis reaches to move it. "Was there something you needed, or are you just snooping before dinner?"

"I'm allowed to survey my kingdom," Noct huffs.

"Snooping, then."

Another pause. Noct breathes through his nose, the way he does when he's working himself to a decision. Ignis remains silent, though his attention lifts again, fondness warring with vague exasperation. Likely, he's considering the value of asking for time, measuring the request against the amount of work likely to be hidden in those neat stacks of paper; perhaps Noct is still every bit as greedy as he was in his youth, but he _tries_ to temper himself these days.

The vague click of teeth behind pursed lips. Ignis can barely make out the sound, but it makes him fight off a knowing smile. _Decision made, then_.

"A king's right, Iggy." Noct's grin is younger than it should be, sharp as a blade. "Honestly, I wanted to see if you could bear a slight shift in schedule."

"Ah. Next week, then?" _And the gods will come to you in apology, with an offering of all those unclaimed years._

"Now, actually. Cor was talking about unclaimed territories this afternoon, and it got me thinking."

Ignis snorts to cover his surprise -- and, maybe, just a flicker of disappointment. "Surprised you're not calling it off on account of the headache, majesty." It's a good thing, he tells himself, that Noctis wants to be so involved in his kingdom. He could bring along a few maps to dinner, and they could go over the specifics side-by-side, like it used to be. Maybe it'd be easier than navigating small conversation, dodging the yet-unspoken like potholes on a rural track. 

Noct, for his part, kicks Ignis gently in the shin with the pointed toe of his shoe. "I'm being responsible," he says, and that grin is growing by degrees, igniting a spark of suspicion in Ignis that doesn't quite survive the the heavy thump of Noct's feet on the floor. "Don't discourage me, dear advisor."

 _Not for a moment_ , Ignis thinks, but lifts his hands in silent surrender. The very real fact of the matter is that Noctis is unlikely to let him get any more work done as it is, and -- well, again, he'd already rearranged his plans the moment Noct appeared. 

Nothing to lose, then, at least nothing that isn't well worth the cost. 

He supposes he's earned a few hours' rest.

-

Ignis can't help but feel a warm curl of satisfaction in his chest as they fall into step together, polished shoes striking the tile in perfect tandem. The lurid light of sunset streams through the tall windows lining the hallway leading to the king's chambers, lending the onyx walls a crimson glow. It's quiet here, too, as it is in so much of the Citadel; entire floors beneath them lie abandoned, waiting for the return of servants and retainers and all the rest. (Noctis himself had tried to claim his old apartment somewhere down there, pointing out the impracticality of wasting power on so much empty space. After a decade of sleep inside the crystal, he'd joked, he'd come to appreciate the lesser comforts of his life before and so by his reckoning they might as well just park a caravan in the plaza and get to work on the important business. But Noctis was the king, Ignis had argued, and his comrades had backed him up. The people of Lucis would take heart in knowing their sovereign had returned to his rightful place. Besides, Prompto had added with his usual enthusiasm, the view was absolutely _wicked_.)

As the shadows begin to fall inside the wall, scattered lights flicker to life across the city. There are many times when their scarcity depresses Ignis, but this evening he can't quite find it in himself to conjure those feelings. A symptom of Noct's presence, he supposes; even in these quiet moments, his king finds new ways to inspire him.

"You're gonna get gray hair, the way you're pushing yourself," Noctis says by way of conversation, and leans over just enough to knock his unarmored shoulder against Ignis's; their steps falter momentarily, but only just. Ignis is too preoccupied with the feeling of simply existing near Noct to come up with a suitable retort, and besides, it's probably true.

Ignis thinks instead about the traces of steely gray that hide within the stiff hair along Noct's jaw and upper lip. He'd hated that new look initially, unable to separate the present from the visions he'd had of Noctis in his last tortured moments, a scene from a future blessedly averted. Now he's come to terms with it, marvelling at how Noct makes what should by all rights be a scruffy mess into something shockingly regal, how it softens the still-new, sharper angles of his face.

"Seriously," Noct says, once he realizes Ignis intends to let the observation go without comment. "Royal decree, Iggy. You've got from here to the end of this hall to shut that brain of yours off. Got it?"

"Begging his majesty's pardon," Ignis sighs; seven reports left behind, the next week's schedule to iron out, provisions to account for lest the glaives devolve to hunting down mutant sabertusks for food --

" _Denied_. Tonight, you're just -- mine." Ignis's stomach shouldn't lurch like it does at the thought, but it does. Twice, in rapid succession. "Okay?"

Ignis wills himself to breathe. "Am I ever not?" he allows with only a little hesitation. At his side, Noctis smiles a monarch's smile, beautiful and all-knowing and charmingly, infuriatingly pleased with himself. "But before then, you led me to believe you wished to speak of territory, did you not?"

"That," Noct murmurs, "is different."

Ignis runs a gloved finger along the fold of the battered roadmap in his hand -- the one thing he'd stopped to grab on his way out the door. Once, Ignis believed he could read Noctis like an open book. Ten years has made of him an enigma at times, and Ignis would resent that fact if Noct weren't so _honest_ about it.

By the time Noctis shoulders the door to his chambers open, Ignis has allowed himself to relax a little. Truthfully, it _does_ feel good to stretch a bit, and the cooler, less-musty air feels like a gift.

-

For all that Ignis doesn't see Noctis half as much as he'd like, the royal apartments aren't strange territory. Ignis still insists on filling the role of chamberlain, still prepares the bulk of Noct's meals and ensures his bedding and laundry remains fresh. Certainly, Noct is no longer the whirlwind of domestic devastation that he was in high school (hard to be, really, when the vast bulk of his earthly possessions have been whittled down to what can be reached for in the Armiger), but Ignis likes to believe that he remains useful nonetheless, readily filling the gaps in his diet that might be otherwise plugged with cheap noodles.

In an uncharacteristic slip of attention, Ignis does not notice when Noct quietly locks the door behind them.

-

The hours pass by easily, sunset giving way to night far above the quiet, mostly-dead city. Ignis lets his morbid thoughts slip by without further inspection, too busy reveling in one of the first real conversations they've been allowed since Noct's return. Occasionally, the topic dips toward the present, but Noctis is quick to pull them back to what he wants to hear. He grills and teases Ignis in turn over the stories he has to tell, as engrossed in word of Gladiolus and the soft look he gets in his eyes when he speaks of the mysterious lady in his life (who most certainly isn't overseeing Lestallum's electrical grid, of course) as he is by the story of Talcott, learning to whittle cactuars in a clumsy but earnest quest to impress Iris. Noct laughs himself to hiccups over the detailed account of Ignis's first time hooking a tide grouper, how he'd gone after the thing with his daggers once the line broke and Prompto had half-drowned trying to pull him back to the shallows, and how they'd both ended up with ferocious coughs for the better part of the week that followed.

Noctis suggests a fishing competition, once things are under control. Get everyone together and maybe head down to the Quay for a night or two, like things were back then. For a moment, Ignis considers the logistics of it. At least Prompto wouldn't whine quite so much about spending the night in a tent, and it would be good to bring the group back together again for something other than business. There are endless possibilities in the light of day, as well as a desperate sort of desire to explore them, now that the hardest part is over. There's something relieving in the recognition that Noctis feels the same, even if it comes as no surprise. 

There's a light dinner somewhere in there, a jolt of shock when Noctis moves to work at Ignis's side, rolling up the sleeves of his immaculate shirt to mince shallots and knead dough while Ignis heats oil and retrieves a bottle of wine. His attention slides, now and again, to the dining chair at the end of the small but ornate kitchen table: the heavy weight of Ignis's Kingsglaive jacket folded neatly over the back, the smaller, lighter shape of Noct's tailored blazer hooked over a spindle. Messy, but in a forgivable way, nothing at all like the austere sterility of his own quarters. 

Noctis nearly pulls the dirty dishes from Ignis's hands after the cooking is done, leveling him with a look so knowing and exasperated that he has to relent, haggling his king into a cursory rinse before they're abandoned for the evening.

Later, Ignis drags himself up and out of the deep cushions of the couch to spread the battered map before them on the coffee table. He uses his half-empty glass of wine to hold down the farthest corner, smoothing the ratty paper down with considerable care. "So," he says, and looks to Noctis, who looks mellowed out and peaceful, watching Ignis in return as he slowly rolls his own glass between his fingers "The marshal spoke of territory, did he?"

Noct's lips twitch. The gilded brace on his leg creaks as he leans forward, his gaze roaming from Ignis's face to the map, tracking the sinewy line of shoulder and arm down to where pale skin and paper meet. His attention is straying already, Ignis thinks -- unsurprising, really. Perhaps wine hadn't been the best idea if he'd intended to sneak back into official waters.

" _Yeah_. Yeah," Noct repeats, and settles thigh to thigh against Ignis as he brings his attention to bear. The sensation is muted through leather, all pressure and no heat, but Ignis doesn't mind. The closeness is welcome, all those years apart and the vague warmth of the Duscaen syrah in his belly calming those ancient, internal accusations of _impropriety_ before they can gain traction. "There's this place," Noct says, slow to start, oddly thoughtful.

After a moment, Ignis hums, gently prodding Noct to continue. "And?"

"Don't rush me," Noct murmurs. "I'm thinking."

Noct's eyes linger on the map, and Ignis wonders what he sees there, if he's seeing anything in particular at all. There are a lot of memories embedded in that well-worn paper, scrawled-in havens and faint coffee rings, a few tiny doodles in Gladio's hand where particularly onerous hunts had been undertaken. "This territory," Noct says abruptly. "I've been considering an expedition."

"Now?" Ignis feels his voice lift, just a little, but Noct is a sea of calm in the face of that flicker of incredulity. 

"That -- might be a bit premature," he concedes, "but soon, if all goes well. Y'know, I spent a lot of time thinking about it, back before, but the timing never seemed right. And then ... well. Then it was too late."

Ignis nods along. _Too late_ covered a lot of things. He scans the map, looking for places he knows Noctis has not been, scouring his memory for clues for places he might _want_ to visit. Niflheim land, perhaps, even if the region hardly suited Noct; they'd covered a lot of ground otherwise, and what was left hardly seemed worth mentioning. Maybe -- maybe one of the isles off Caem, some legendary fishing spot passed on by Navyth. 

_That_ , he thinks, would suit Noct just fine.

Or. "Did the marshal's hunters find another tomb?" Ignis finds his curiosity piqued, particularly since such news usually passes first through Ignis's hands.

"No," Noct says quickly, shaking his head. "But I suppose you could consider it a temple of sorts. Kind of stormy sometimes, but -- not dangerous." And then he huffs a quiet little laugh against the rim of his glass, draining the remainder of his wine so he can set the glass aside. "Not to me, anyway," he amends, sensing Ignis's disapproval.

Ignis gives up on the map, turning instead to watch Noct. Those twilight eyes of his are dark and achingly soft in the lamplight, his cheeks a little flushed from the alcohol, lips red and damp and it's a struggle to avoid turning away to curb his unwelcome thoughts, to instead smile faintly like he's unaffected by this closeness. 

There are many things that Ignis has been expected to do for Noctis in his life. Care for him, certainly. Guide him, cherish him, protect him -- die for him, should the need arise. _Love him_ , yes, in all the other ways that matter. 

(All things that have proved far too easy to do.)

"I don't suppose this place has a name," Ignis finally manages, disregarding the urge to reach for his own wine.

"It does," Noctis says. 

"Will you share it, or shall we play guessing games for the rest of the evening?"

That smile goes beatific. "Now _that's_ an idea, isn't it? Pour me another glass, and I can rattle off details until you abandon me for the sake of your sanity."

" _Noct_."

There's not enough edge in Ignis's voice to sharpen Noct's attention the way it does; the half-groan of his name is long-suffering if anything at all, the ghost of an old routine renewed and only slightly tarnished with age and disuse.

"Iggy -- _Ignis_ ," Noct says. "Dearest advisor. Sweet parchment to my trembling quill, your penchant for the literal is going to be the ruin of us both." Noct's fingertips skim briefly along the Cleigne coastline, smoothly seeking the back of Ignis's hand and finding purchase, drawing it towards him. 

This time, Noct's smile curves over the edge of Ignis's palm. 

Noct breathes in, then presses a kiss there.

Ignis feels his entire world lurch sideways. It's not the wine that leaves his head spinning, but the way his king watches him through the dark, artful fall of his hair, patience tinged with that restless energy of before and Ignis has enough time to think, _oh_.

What he says is: "I'd not abandon you." _Not willingly_ , not for anyone's sake but Noct's own. The truth of that is etched into his very skin.

"I know." Another kiss. The hair beneath Noct's lip tickles the side of Ignis's hand, and he shivers, picking his way through the rest of his king's words with slow deliberation. 

"Trembling … quill, Noct?"

"I thought about more wine, first," Noctis admits.

"That sounds like the kind of euphemism you'd find in gutter literature," Ignis presses, the fine arch of his scarred brow lifting perilously high.

"It could be, you know. If I can sweet-talk my advisor into this little expedition of mine."

Ignis opens his mouth, and closes it again a moment later. _A temple indeed_ , and Ignis is certain that only Noctis could make that minor blasphemy sound genuine, even sweet. Years of experience have hardened Ignis to most types of surprises, but this time Noct catches him well and truly off-guard. Not just by this roundabout confession, but by how casually he approaches it.

He takes Ignis's affection as a given, which is true. He shares his own without reservation, and that, Ignis thinks, is as remarkable as any other aspect of this.

Ignis tilts his hand to better fit against Noct's, shifting his body to properly face his king. If Noctis chooses nonchalance, Ignis will honor his confession by responding in kind, and he's rewarded for the effort with a relieved little smile. Still, he can't help but prod at the edges of this, finding its shape; Noct might please himself with sly talk and vagaries, but Ignis is a creature of certainty. 

He finds himself swallowing around pressure in his throat, aware of the tremor sneaking into his voice and choosing to speak regardless. "And what name do you give this territory of yours?"

Noctis rolls his eyes, like the answer is too obvious to waste breath on. It's a little clumsy, the way he wriggles onto his hip, the way his foot slips briefly across the floor as he tilts himself into Ignis, swinging a knee over Ignis's thighs to settle loosely in his lap. " _Home_."

Ignis hadn't really expected to hear his name, but Noct's answer manages to cut right through, and Ignis's breath catches roughly on the inhale. _Home_. What a thing to hear, here in the heart of Insomnia.

 _Home_. Ignis so badly wants to take it for truth.

"Noct," Ignis says quietly, because _your majesty_ feels far, far too formal in the moment. Noct's eyes light up in response, amusement and eagerness and a touch of trepidation in the way he's watching Ignis; they both know he's not particularly experienced with romantic gestures, grand or otherwise, but Ignis is certain it's perfect, just like this.

(And, he supposes, he can put up with a bit of easy circling -- for Noct's sake, of course.)

One hand settles loose against Noct's hip. As that sense of touched awe recedes, Ignis steadies himself by slipping into this game of sly words as well. " _Unclaimed_ seems a bit of a stretch," Ignis murmurs. "This territory was always yours."

"Maybe," Noctis allows, and he doesn't bother to hide his relief. "But unexplored, absolutely."

Ignis breathes a soft laugh. "I suppose that much is true."

A part of Ignis wants to freeze the moment as it is -- to take his time combing over the last few hours and the conversations that preceded it, to conjure up all those remembered moments of _before_ to suss out the signs he might have missed, willingly or otherwise. To go back to that fire-bright moment when Noctis cried over his ruined body and spoke of _love_ and hear what he'd wanted, rather than what he'd dared.

The rest of him is content to stay in the present, especially when the present involves Noctis leaning in to hook an arm over Ignis's shoulder, his other hand reaching to push aside the rogue lock of hair hanging over Ignis's forehead. "I'd really like to kiss you now," Noct says. "May I?"

Ignis is quite certain Noct is using his manners for Ignis's sake, and finds himself charmed by the idea. Practicality whispers that this is the last frontier in which they are strangers to one another, but he mostly ignores it. Does it really matter? Noctis is a warm and precious weight above him, and Ignis stumbles over a half-considered quip about _approval granted_ , mercifully halted by the brush of Noct's lips against his own.

It's ... softer than Ignis thought it would be, not counting the scratch of wiry hair against his chin. Noct isn't _hesitating_ so much as considering, displaying a patience Ignis had once thought him utterly incapable of. True exploration, the way Noct tips his head to slant his mouth over Ignis's, tasting the old scar and lingering there as he threads his fingers through Ignis's hair at the temple. When he decides to press further in, Ignis offers no resistance, welcoming the curious sweep of his king's tongue with a quiet sigh that has Noct grinning wide against his lips. Noctis drinks deep, on and _in_ until his breath is spent and he has to retreat to suck down a ragged gasp of air. A kiss, then, against Ignis's forehead, a damp press of lips followed by the gentle swipe of Noct's thumb, a gesture that makes Ignis ache with the tenderness of it. 

Ignis had long ago perfected the crushing of his own half-formed wants, exorcising fantasy with all the ruthless efficiency of hunting daemons, wielding his twin weapons of guilt and duty. To have those doors thrown open so suddenly -- to be wrapped up now in the feeling of Noct nearly curled around him, the spice of unfamiliar cologne as heavy in his nose as the taste of wine is on his tongue -- leaves him closer to feeling overwhelmed than he has since the light's return.

But as always, Noct is his ground, his familiar place to stand. _Home_.

"Doing all right there, Iggy?" Noctis asks, and the way he bites the edge of his lip is all too knowing. 

Ignis considers the merit of kissing that smug look right off his king's face. He's not nearly been thorough enough to look so pleased with himself, and Ignis considers mentioning that, too. Then again, the direction the last few minutes have gone, Ignis supposes Noct will realize that soon enough. "Well enough, majesty," Ignis murmurs, and is rewarded with the scrunch of Noct's nose at the unexpected injection of formality.

"Just well enough?" Those twilight eyes widen just a little, because Noct can't help but take that as a challenge.

Ignis smiles, drawing Noct a little more firmly against him. "I believe you'll find," he says, and his hand shifts from Noct's hip to the small of his back, fingers whispering against warm broadcloth, "that in these matters, there is always room for _better_."

"Guess I'd better get on it, then," Noct replies, and bends to kiss Ignis again -- a merciful distraction from the fact that a part of him is _this_ close to responding with _it seems you already are_.

For a little while, that's enough. For a little while, Noctis keeps his tendencies at bay, learning to breathe with Ignis through kisses of increasing length and depth. His hands are restless, unrepentantly destroying the careful sweep of Ignis's hair, kneading and occasionally tugging when the immediacy of their bodies against one another gets the better of him. Noct's thighs tighten, like he'd close fully around Ignis if he could manage it, and Ignis is distracted by it just enough to feel a flicker of gratitude that the leather he wears is enough to keep the pressure of Noct's brace from leaving a bruise.

It's not nearly enough to keep either of their attention from _other_ pressures, though; Noct's hips are moving, rocking slow and steady against Ignis's belly while his own trousers are beginning to feel a bit stifling. He's considering the benefit of halting to ask Noctis just how far he intends to take this exploration of his, but Noct moves first, shifting his attention from bruised lips to the edge of Ignis's jaw, hot and wet and _oh_ , there's that greed, unraveling in the demanding scrape of teeth against Ignis's neck.

Noct's fingers slip free of their hold on Ignis's wrecked hair, trembling just slightly as they skim down the line of Ignis's throat, plucking at the silver zipper. "How do you bear it?" Noct breathes against skin. Ignis swears he can see constellations in the dark, depthless pool of Noct's blown stare, and feels something in his chest clench tight.

Ignis isn't entirely sure _what_ the question is, but the answer, he knows, will be the same. "Plenty of practice, Noct."

Noct groans, quiet. "Of course you'd say that." Another silent, internal debate that Ignis dares not speculate on for his own sake. Noct's eyes flicker, down and away and back again in quick succession, and then he sucks in a sharp breath. "Come to bed with me, Iggy."

Ignis wants to laugh -- not because it's funny, but because it's sweet, and so unlike Noctis that Ignis can't help but wonder if he'd pilfered it from some long-ago watched film. _Of all the things to resonate_ , he thinks, but Noctis is still watching him intently. "Let me take care of you, for once."

That, bizarrely, sounds a little more Noctis-like.

Ignis's brow furrows, but it's little more than pretense to buy a few moments, to calm his racing pulse. "I wasn't aware you'd plotted a relief effort. The logistics of such an endeavor--"

" _Ignis_ ," Noct warns, quiet but amused.

"All play aside, Noct, you must be fully aware of what you're asking. I don't -- _do_ casual." It's a difficult thing to say, a little hypocritical-feeling, especially when his lap is already full of Noctis all dark and breathless and eager, when he's no better off in the long run. He tells himself he's duty-bound -- but no, that's an evasion, isn't it? It's not duty that compels Ignis to live for Noct's behalf, no matter the personal cost. 

It hasn't been, not for a very long time. 

_Love_ , in all the ways that matter.

Noct's mouth twitches like he wants to crack a joke, but something he sees in Ignis's face keeps him honest. Instead, he leans forward, pressing his forehead against Ignis's, making a proper embrace of his loose hold. "Hey now, that's homework I actually _did_. Wasn't our fault everything went crazy." After all those heated kisses, the damp brush of lips against Ignis's cheek feels positively chaste. "Don't want casual. Want always."

"I understand," Ignis murmurs, and that's true. There's plenty that he hadn't expected to hear, that will definitely take more time than he has right now to unpack, but it's enough. More than that, it makes him feel like he's swallowed the sun whole, like he might be nothing but air and light right now. "Shall we?" 

"So my dear advisor supports expanding the parameters of this mission, then?" Trust Noct to slide back into more comfortable waters at the earliest opportunity.

Ignis hums a note of affirmation, allows himself to relax back into the moment. He tugs Noctis closer against him, and smiles. "Your dear advisor believes that's not the only recent expansion worth notice."

Noctis blinks, then barks a surprised laugh. "Nothing escapes that guy. Sees everything, even without the specs."

"Another unexpected gift from the crystal."

There's naked satisfaction on Noct's face at that, even if they both choose to veer sharply away from the topic. Instead, Noct draws back, cradling Ignis's jaw between his hands, just -- watching. "They made you look respectable, you know," he says quietly, into the silence between them.

Ignis arches a brow. "And now?"

"Now," Noct breathes, and Ignis is startled by the look of reverence, an expression unfamiliar on Noct's face, but strangely well-suited. "You're touchable. Less perfect. _More_ perfect. I'm a little biased, maybe."

Unexpected, that. Ignis had never really considered himself _untouchable_ before, certainly never when it came to Noct. His king is exaggerating wildly, but he decides that if _scarred retainer in need of a trim who looks like he's been kissed mostly-stupid into the royal couch_ is Noct's idea of perfection, then who is he to argue?

Besides, the tattered remains of his vanity appreciate the sentiment more than he'll ever admit.

What he finds falling out of his (mostly-stupid) mouth is, "I believe you'll find that I am, in fact, quite touchable," and really, it's a testament to Noct's bad influence that he doesn't even sort of dissipate into a cloud of embarrassed shame at _that_ particular nugget of poorly-processed cheese. 

Instead, he's opening up beneath the insistent swipe of Noct's tongue over his lower lip, yielding with a quiet groan that rumbles up his throat and into Noct's mouth. His king swallows it down approvingly, taking that quiet sound for the encouragement it is, shamelessly molding his body against Ignis for a few stuttering, brilliant seconds and it's not half enough to satisfy either of them. "Come to bed," Noct repeats, and this time all Ignis -- charmed and dizzy as he is -- can do is nod. 

It takes effort for Noctis to drag himself away, and Ignis is shocked by the way his own knees tremble as he pulls himself to his feet. The laugh they share is equal parts new delight and self-consciousness when Noct's leg thumps against the coffee table and they stumble into each other. Ignis hasn't felt like this since -- he doesn't know. A long time ago. Maybe never.

It's a fragile sort of joy that breathes and shivers in the spaces between them, an air of unreality to the moment, the kind of languid, underwater sensation they'd first stumbled into in the ruins beneath the Vesperpool. They bump into one another again and again, stealing kisses and handfuls of stubborn clothing in turn. At his bedroom door, Noctis pauses. Gathers Ignis's hand in his own, and dips into a picture-perfect courtly bow, a noble image set askew by the teasing, hungry curve at the edge of his mouth. His lips burn against the back of Ignis's knuckles, warm and welcome as daybreak.

Ignis bows his head like a supplicant and allows himself to be led within, learning to breathe all over again. 

-

It's a smooth, uncluttered path between here and the edge of the bed, no source but starlight filtering through the windows to illuminate their way. Ignis feels the back of his thighs bump up against the edge of the mattress around the same time Noct manages to push the vest from his shoulders. He tenses briefly, fighting the urge to snatch it up and find a proper place, but Noct's mouth is hot and insistent against his throat, and he wonders if Noct can feel his pulse fluttering beneath his tongue the way he can hear it thrumming inside his skull. The vest drops, a muted clatter of buckles and tooled leather. Ignis lets it go, an act as deliberate as the way he reaches up to pluck at the juncture of Noct's collar -- down and down, each slipped button almost mechanically precise despite the tremble of his hands.

Ignis's concentration falters when he feels Noct's smooth, long fingers scramble under the hem of his shirt, tracking up along the meat of his ribs, making him shiver involuntarily. Fleetingly, he realizes that the calluses he remembers from years of weapons training have faded during the course of Noct's stasis. (How strange is it, Ignis wonders, to wake up to a body that went on without him? Would Noct tell the truth if he asked? Does he even have the courage?) 

Noct grins against his neck, mischievous and entirely unrepentant and clearly prepared to do battle with whatever thoughts are threatening to steal his advisor's attention. Ignis would have never imagined, would never have _allowed_ himself --

And that, Ignis thinks, is for the best. His imagination would have failed him, done neither of them justice.

He doesn't resist when he finds himself being tipped backwards, mussing the immaculate coverlet he himself had smoothed into place this morning. Noct moves to follow -- reconsiders, then hesitates long enough to shuck off the brace. He's a solid, grounding weight on Ignis's hips when he finally settles, mouth parted, chest heaving, moonlight painting the shadow of long lashes across the sharp curves of his cheeks. His once-immaculate dress shirt carelessly slips off a pale shoulder. He looks -- debauched.

He looks _happy_.

Noct's staring again, though his eyes are heavy-lidded. His hands are roaming without particular purpose, tracking along the swell of muscle and bone beneath his fingers. In some way, Ignis thinks, ten years must have made him a stranger to Noctis, too. Age and necessity have stolen some of the willowy leanness from his frame, carved into his flesh the proof of his will to survive. Noct's fingers hesitate over a long scar that starts just above Ignis's lowest rib, tracing it to the edge of his rucked-up tee. His eyebrows knit together as he pushes the warm fabric up, until Ignis is left with the choice to either tug the thing off or suffocate in his own shirt.

He chooses the former, feeling strangely exposed as he leans back on an elbow to watch Noctis in turn. There's weight to this silence between them, one he knows he should break before what should by all rights be a joyous occasion takes a turn for the maudlin. Yes, their separation was a hurt that never stopped, but none of this is cause for regret. Ignis wears his scars, perhaps not with pride, but with full acceptance. There are many more, though few so obvious.

(Beneath his king's achingly gentle hands, they're nothing but marks.)

Noct's touch follows its path, curling up along the right side of his chest, the apex of the old wound a hand's breadth away from the pale nipple. Ignis breathes in sharply, an unfocused quip about Noct's want for exploration dying on his tongue as that dark head dips down to press a damp, open-mouthed kiss there, and then another. The third involves a sly scrape of teeth that ties Ignis's stomach in fluttering knots, accompanied by a slow roll of slim hips that lets him know that Noctis absolutely hasn't forgotten what he's there for.

While Noctis makes an honest effort out of mapping the geography of Ignis's chest with his lips and tongue, Ignis contents himself with tugging Noct's shirttails free of his slacks, thumbing open those last few buttons one-handed as his knuckles skim low against Noct's belly. Noct presses eagerly into the contact as he shrugs his way out of his shirt, but catches Ignis's fingers in his own when he reaches for the buckle of his belt, shaking his head faintly.

"Not yet," Noct hisses, though his breathing has shifted pitch in response to his primal understanding of _potential_. "This one's about you."

"No need for scorekeeping," Ignis murmurs. "And we both know you're not exactly patient."

Noctis bows his head to stifle a laugh. "Exactly."

"And if I'm not feeling particularly patient myself, Noct?" Ignis considers himself a man of extraordinary patience; he'd have to be, to have made it through their shared youth with his sanity intact. 

"Well, then," Noct says, and slips down from his perch, and for a moment Ignis wonders if he's somehow offended him or thrown him off-balance -- it wouldn't be impossible, given how touchy Noct can be when it comes to maneuvering new experiences. (And this? Ignis thinks it must be new. Otherwise, he would have known.) 

But there's no sign of raw nerves in the smile Noct offers Ignis as he leans over him again, stealing a kiss. He simply nudges his way in between Ignis's knees and sinks down between them, and Ignis feels his mouth go dry at the look in his king's eyes. "I'd better hurry up, hadn't I?"

The next kiss is pressed against warm leather. Noctis rubs his cheek along the inside of Ignis's thigh like a cat, slow and languorous, breaking into a satisfied smile as Ignis's hand fists tightly in the bedding. Ignis won't kid himself into pretending he doesn't have a keen idea as to where Noct's heading with this, but it still takes the span of a few heartbeats to truly _process_.

"It's kinda weird," Noct murmurs.

"Hmm?"

"The gear. Still weird, not seeing you in a suit."

Ignis isn't sure whether Noct considers this a positive. "So you say, well on your way to not seeing me in anything at all."

Noctis laughs. "Wouldn't take nearly so long, anyway; these boots should be outlawed." There's a petulant edge to his voice as he fumbles at the laces.

 _Ah_. Ignis pushes himself upright to reach behind his knee. "Don't take the long way, then," he replies, and it feels like necessity to dip down and seek a kiss while he's at it. Noct makes a low noise, but his fingers are quick to displace Ignis's, finding the discreet zipper along the rear seam.

From there, it's easy. Only heartbeats later, Noctis is pulling back and Ignis's boots are added to the discarded bits of clothing scattered across the bedroom floor. Ignis doesn't pay them any mind -- he's got a hand on Noct's hair, threading locks loosely between his fingers, pleased to note it's every bit as soft as it looks. He's tempted to say something stupid and sentimental and absolutely true, but Noctis heads him off as he leans his arms over the tops of Ignis's thighs. "I'm getting there, Iggy -- gimme a sec."

Which is absolutely not what he was going for, but Noct's laughing again and Ignis can't bear to cut that short. Noct shuffles closer, hands spread out and sliding upwards, fingers skimming over leather and skin. Despite Noct's teasing, Ignis has no intention of hurrying his king along; this is his exploration, and Ignis has suffered far, far worse than a bit of delayed gratification.

"I used to think about this," Noctis says quietly, as his hands slowly, slowly come together to palm the hard outline of Ignis through leather. "What you might be into. How you'd -- how you'd like it." More confessions. Ignis feels his breath leave in a rush, though his cock is quick to jump beneath Noct's curious fingers, muted as the touch is. "You were always so … _proper_. I'd think about what it would take to drive you crazy."

Words to spring a thousand half-formed, desperately executed fantasies from their graves. "You," Ignis says roughly. "You've always known what to do." It's a joke -- and a lame one at that -- but that doesn't make it untrue.

Noct's eyes glitter in the darkness. "Good to hear." His lips twist ruefully as his voice catches, cracking its way into a lower, more sonorous pitch. Ignis's thumb follows the arch of Noct's brow, and Noct tilts his head to lay a kiss to the heel of his palm before he turns his attention back to the task at hand.

He's absolutely beautiful. Ignis has always known this, but he's caught once more by the way he seems to nearly glow in the scattered moonlight, mesmerized by the delicate curve of his neck as he leans forward to mouth at the soft skin of Ignis's belly. It's difficult not to twitch beneath the scratch of Noct's beard, but Ignis finds himself sufficiently distracted by Noct's fingers fumbling at his fly, unsteady but determined.

 _No going back from this_ , Ignis has time to think, and then Noct's tongue is dragging a wet circle around his navel, eager hands worming their way beneath the gapping waist of Ignis's trousers and doing their level best to strip them away in a smooth motion. Only -- _smooth_ certainly isn't the term he'd use for the way Noct is attempting to peel him like an overripe orange. Cute, yes. Impatient, absolutely; Noctis growls his frustration against his skin and Ignis braces himself on a hand and lifts his hips out of a sense of mercy almost as strong as his need. 

It's all the help Noctis needs, and he murmurs his gratitude as he drags trousers and undershorts both down Ignis's thighs, shoving them away like the very idea of clothing offends him. 

Ignis releases a shivering breath as the last of his skin is bared to the cool night air, and his king's hungry, heavy-lidded stare. By his estimation, it must be quite the vulgar view from where Noct is kneeling, but by his own admission Noct has been stewing in his own laundry list of vulgarities, hasn't he? For now, his eyes are tracking from Ignis's face, down the pale line of his body to settle on the shape of his cock, flushed hard and dark, curving gently against his belly.

"Wow," Noctis breathes. "Just -- wow, Iggy."

Ignis closes his eyes, momentarily taken over by the note of awe in Noct's voice. For the span of a few heartbeats, he's beyond sly quips and foolish jokes, foundering in his own skin with the sheer weight of _knowing_. He wants to know the details of what's run through Noct's head -- wants to turn each and every one of those thoughts real.

But for now, he's careful with this vulnerable, newly-emerged facet of Noctis. Ignis smiles a smile that feels shakier than it should be, stroking Noct's hair. "How goes the expedition, your majesty?"

He's rewarded with a choked sound, a quiet laugh Noct muffles against the inside of his knee. "Beautiful country, my dear advisor," he finally says. "Pretty sure I could spend the rest of my life right here."

"With so far yet to go?"

"It's a good spot. And anyway --" Noct licks his lips. Chews the inside of them as he glances back up at Ignis through a wing of dark hair.

"Mm?" Ignis watches Noct gathering himself. He fights the instinct to go tense when Noct's hands slide up his thighs, framing his cock between thumbs and forefingers and that delicate brushing touch against the root of him is so sweet he has to swallow the reedy noise stuttering up the back of his throat.

"Anyway," Noct continues, keen to every reaction Ignis allows him, "you've always said it's important to sample local flavors. Right?" Noct doesn't wait for an answer, savoring instead Ignis's strangled groan as he drags his tongue experimentally along the underside of his cock. A slight hesitation then, perhaps to formulate a first impression of the act, or his place within it.

And then he breathes a quiet _huh_ , and bends his head in earnest.

For all that Noctis had chosen to see him as untouchable, Ignis is no stranger to sex. He might not be as prolific as some of his friends (or at least their reputations), but he's learned his way around bedrooms and bodies both, as well as how to armor his heart against the inevitable hollowness that creeps into the boneless, shivering aftermath, the realization that the peaceful warmth that follows is as fragile as a puff of smoke in the wind.

(Then again, Ignis had come early to the realization that he was made to be a thief in bed, cursed to seek the unfindable and soft enough to know shame for it. No other eyes would ever be so deep or so blue, no shoulders ever set just so, no laugh quite possessed enough to set the illusion -- and just as hopelessly, Ignis has ever been too true to really _try_.)

Noctis seems to have no such hangups. Each swipe and slide of his hot tongue is honest and wondering and artless, every path traced over Ignis's skin a reminder of what he had hoped to find all along. Perhaps it's an overly sentimental thought to accompany the wet sounds of Noct's mouth working over his cock, but Ignis is too preoccupied to care, especially when Noct curls his slippery fingers around the hard length of him and strokes experimentally, slow but firm.

Noct's enthusiasm makes up for his inexperience; Ignis hisses into that delicious friction, and his king pulls back enough to direct a wicked, entirely too self-satisfied grin upwards. In response, Ignis's fingers skim Noct's jawline and over, tracing the damp bow of his swollen, parted lips. "Enjoying yourself, Noct?" 

"Y'know … yeah." Noct looks vaguely surprised by his own answer. "Guess so. Great view, too -- you just. Go back and forth between looking like a porn star and looking like you're gonna pass out, Iggy."

Ignis opens his mouth, and closes it quickly. Huffs quietly in despair, and returns to stroking Noct's sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes. "Spent time analyzing porn stars, did you?"

"Didn't I say I did my homework?"

 _Or not_ , Ignis thinks wryly. He bends down to claim Noct's mouth in a lingering kiss -- tastes his own faint essence on his king's tongue and feels a hot surge of possessive pleasure over the fact. "Reality is rarely so … polished," Ignis finally murmurs into the space between them. "Or performative. Nor should it be."

"Or honest about how fast your jaw's gonna ache," Noctis adds, a plaintive edge to his voice, and Ignis laughs unexpectedly, in love all over again. 

"Or that, yes. Now," and Ignis curls his hands around Noct's biceps, tugging him upwards gently. "Your mouth is a gift, but I would touch you properly." A beat. "Please." Years of unacknowledged, unanswered longing caught up in a single weighted word, one that seems to catch Noct entirely off-guard. 

Noctis scrambles upright, his momentum a few degrees beyond what his unsteady legs are capable of supporting. Ignis is there as always, a solid, steadying presence, a safe place to land as they tumble against the mattress once more. This time, Noctis doesn't stop Ignis as he works his buckle loose and pushes both gabardine and silk down Noct's slender hips to curl his spread fingers against the back of Noct's thighs -- a motion complicated only briefly by Noct's impatient wriggling as he kicks his shoes off into the surrounding darkness.

For a moment, Ignis is a little jealous of Noct's prior, unhindered access, but the thought passes almost as quickly as it surfaces. It's better like this; the tangle of legs and mingling breaths and the way he can feel the heavy weight of his king's cock pushing slick lines against his belly, dragging along his own with each uneven roll of his hips. Noct's mouth is a roving, relentless shape on his throat and jaw, licking and kissing, greedily sucking bruises against his skin and Ignis thinks, _yes, this_. 

Tonight, Ignis is no thief. There's nothing but generosity in the way he touches Noctis, his face turned into Noct's hair as his hands skim along his flanks and sides and up, over the sharp angles of his shoulder blades. He closes his arms around Noct's waist, pulling him tight against him, bracing his leg between Noct's parted thighs to be rewarded with a shuddering whine as the friction's pitch between them changes.

Whatever careful facade Noct has attempted is quickly being eroded, and Ignis is grateful for that. He wants Noctis as he is, demanding and beautiful and imperfect and all -- and here, with Noct's fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to bruise, Noct's breath ragged and stuttering and wet against the shell of his ear, Noct riding his thigh like he was born to it as they grind and rock against one another, Ignis thinks maybe he's uncovered him at last. It's an unsustainable rhythm, but it compliments the raw-edged undercurrent of desperation infusing the negligible spaces between their bodies. 

No more jokes, no sly talk of _exploration_ ; rather, Noctis slips his arms beneath Ignis's shoulders, cradling the back of his head in his cupped hands, fingers threading deep into his hair. He breathes half-formed words and fervent curses against Ignis's lips; Ignis takes each one to heart, watching the furrow in Noct's brow grow deeper between his squeezed-shut eyes as his hips buck and stutter, unravelling beneath the pressure of their frantic pace.

When Noctis comes, it's with Ignis's name, broken, on his tongue. Ignis finds himself unprepared for the way it hits him, as tangible a sensation as the jerk and twitch of his king's cock between their bellies, the flood of warmth that follows.

His own silence when he follows heartbeats later isn't dishonest -- just an unexpected side effect of _too much_. 

(Better than _too late_ by far.)

All the tension in Noct's body leaves in increments. He melts by degrees against Ignis, burying his head into the juncture of his shoulder and neck, sluggishly nosing sweat-slick skin. In response, Ignis shifts his raised leg, his ankle crossing Noct's as they settle to catch their breaths. The slide of Ignis's palm up the curve of Noct's spine is slow and sated, and Noct doesn't fight the pleased shiver that follows. "Thank you," Noctis finally murmurs.

"My pleasure," Ignis breathes, as if that weren't patently obvious.

"Mine, too," Noct chuckles. "But I mean -- wow. _Wow_."

"Indeed."

Noct huffs at the touch of dryness in Ignis's quiet voice, and lazily wriggles his hips, ignoring the warm, sticky mess between them. "Even if we didn't really get that far?"

Ignis puzzles over Noct's meaning for a few heartbeats, cracking open an eye to glance down at the nest of hopelessly tousled black hair beneath his chin. After a moment, he hums. "There are many ways to make love, Noct." _And time, now, to explore them_. "Are you disappointed?"

"No," Noctis says, too content to even pretend to take offense at the suggestion. "Guess I should keep you around to show me the others, though."

"I guess you should." There's humor there, a different kind of pleasure found in the easiness of their banter, not to mention the promise of _more_.

"Royal decree," Noct murmurs. "Get my advisor to make a note of it."

"Duly noted," Ignis says, and breathes a long, contented sigh. "Now, might I suggest a shower? Being glued to one's side is meant to be figurative."

Noctis laughs quietly and mumbles an assent, even as he attempts to settle himself more fully against Ignis. Likewise, Ignis doesn't want to move, but the cool evening air is finally starting to catch up to them, and the idea of hot water and clean skin is appealing. The idea of Noctis there with him? 

Even better.


	2. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief morning-after that I posted to tumblr a long time ago, after I realized it was highly unlikely I was going to get back to this fic for the second part I'd originally wanted to do. 
> 
> I apologize to all the people whose hopes I got up! I hope you'll accept this addition (and pretty much my take on Iggy's alternate ending) instead.

There are forty steps to the Lucian throne. 

Noctis is beginning to familiarize himself with this morning ritual of ascension: seventeen to the the brief respite of the landing, twenty-three more to scale the dais. The weight of history lies heavy in this hall, his sense of time and his place within it oddly distorted in the moments when he allows his thoughts to wander.

Those times come far more often than he’d like, and he’s beginning to think that this in itself might be a new sort of ritual, however unwelcome. But that, at least, he understands; what does it mean to be king, after all, if not to sacrifice? He’d watched his father wither across long dining tables and high-definition screens and in the stark overexposure of newspaper ink. He’d sat through courses that dissected the lives of his forebears, and knows the list of their bargains and losses – the ones recorded in the history books and the secret ones that lay unspoken, bared only to the wielder of the Ring. Stacking a little personal discomfort against a life distilled to magical energy makes him feel every inch the spoiled child he’d once been, and he attempts to will the flicker of guilt away.

Besides, everything is different, now.

Noctis Lucis Caelum, King of Kings, Chosen of Light, sits on his throne and considers the fact that he was never meant to _rule_. Beyond matters of diplomacy, most of his knowledge is outdated and useless. He’d been granted his years of carefree youth as a gift to a boy with a terminal case of destiny. There’s no bitterness in that understanding. Noctis was to be just one more sacrifice in a long succession: gods-blessed, a last gift to the world from the line that had guarded its many-faceted heart. It would have been a fair trade. But neither gods nor Lucis Caelums could have accounted for the sheer determination of Ignis Scientia. 

Just like that, the world rights itself. His scattered thoughts return home. 

Noctis turns his attention to the brilliant blue sky outside the window, and thinks he might not need the ghosts of the past for guidance much after all.

-

Two minutes to nine in the morning; motes of dust hang suspended in the still air of the throne room, gilded by sunlight. Noctis curls his fingers against cool basalt, eyes turned expectantly toward the door, willing his mind to some near approximation of stillness. It’ll be better for his pride, if nothing else, not to let Ignis find him fidgeting in his throne like a distracted teenager – not that he _isn’t_ distracted. Not that Ignis doesn’t bear much of the blame for it.

 _Particularly_ when he can recall with perfect clarity the sensation of Ignis’s long fingers curled into the meat of his shoulders, the way his breath washed warm against the hollow of Noct’s throat in the night just past. It hadn’t quite been dawn the first time Noctis woke, cocooned in cozy blankets and cozier arms and legs. The second time, he’d been alone, the thoughtless scatter of clothes and dishes tidied away and a half dozen sweet pastries, almost warm still, waiting on the kitchen table – a message of affection in Ignis’s precise hand, to soothe the sting of solitude.

How will things be different?

The sound of the heavy doors opening echoes through the hall; the dust skirls wild in the wake of that breath of outside air. Noct listens to the smart, weighted beat of boots striking marble, and bites the inside of his cheek to kill a giddy smile.

Ignis sweeps through the shadows, his gait loose and unhurried and Noctis finds himself taking pride in that fact even if he can’t quite pinpoint _why_. Unsurprisingly, he looks completely unruffled – as if the clothes he wears hadn’t spent the night prior adorning various parts of Noct’s bedroom floor. At least, Noctis thinks they’re the same. Maybe Ignis has a closet full of neatly hung leather pants, now.

Without ceremony, Ignis steps into the sunlight bathing the landing, eyes lifting, bringing a gloved fist to his chest in a perfect salute as he bows before the throne. 

Noctis draws a slow, deliberate breath, caught in another moment he can’t bear to look away from: Ignis limned in morning light, beautiful and severe and utterly self-contained beneath the heavy weight of Noctis’s wondering regard. Noctis nods his acknowledgement, at a loss and all too aware of it. Recognition flickers in Ignis’s doll-green eyes as they go soft along the corners, and the bow of his lips curves faintly, knowing. 

More than that, _understanding_.

How odd, the way the distance between them feels like no distance at all, the way a title can sound like a benediction.

“Dearest advisor,” Noctis finally rasps around the hard knot in his throat.

“Good morning, Noct,” Ignis says, a certain richness in his voice that reminds Noctis of this morning’s sugar-dusted tarts and the fact that he knows there are splashes of purple stark against Ignis’s skin, safely hidden behind the stiff collar of his jacket. Just like that, Noctis feels himself relax. "I trust you slept well?“

"Good morning, yourself,” Noctis replies, breaking into a grin he can’t bear to contain any longer. "And … yeah.“ He bites the corner of his lip, letting the hot wash of skin memory work its way through his limbs with hardly a shiver to show for it. There’ll be time to luxuriate in the feeling later, and Noctis is no stranger to living with restraint where Ignis is concerned. 

It’s only slightly less bearable for the fact that it’s a temporary measure. He wants to make his way down those twenty-three steps and lean into Ignis and ask what he’d like to do for dinner; if he’d like to take advantage of Noctis’s willingness in the kitchen once again, or if he’d rather have something brought from the kitchens while they return to their own eager cartography –

Instead, Noctis rearranges himself on the throne, leaning his cheek against the back of his hand. "All right, Iggy. Lay it on me.”

He wonders if he’s imagining the brief flicker of pride in Ignis’s eyes as his advisor folds his gloved hands at the small of his back. Still, that warm smile remains, and Noct can’t help but echo it.

**Author's Note:**

> Six years of fic-writing absence and of course I bring it back home with a whole lot of porn. My apologies if Noct isn't dashing in the traditional sense, but he's such a tryhard nerd that it felt like a legitimate direction. I've never written a one-shot this long, jesus. Apparently I still don't know how to gracefully end, either, but I don't really imagine anyone's going to be too devastated over that.
> 
> Speaking of porn, part of me kind of wants to write about Ignis gently educating Noctis about the difference between real people sex and porn sex ... though mostly it's a clever excuse to have him drive Noctis absolutely wild.


End file.
